Hiding From the Light (43 page)

Alice parked the car carefully by the swan fountain and sat for a moment staring through the windscreen, watching the stream of water cascading from the swan’s beak. The whole town was bathed in the warm sweet smell from the Maltings. It was a bit like Horlicks. It was making her feel hungry and she rummaged in the glovebox in a vain attempt to find something to eat. No chocolates, just empty cigarette packets. She closed the flap with a scowl. Soon it would be dark. She shivered. Dusk at Halloween. The best time to interview a witch.

Dragging her heavy shoulderbag with the precious cargo of camcorder and tape recorder, she slid out of the car and locked it. The street was deserted. There was no sign of anyone, even outside the pub where already a pumpkin, hollowed out and carved into a hideous face, glowed in one of the windows. She glanced up at the sign. It showed Matthew Hopkins, almost a cartoon character in his high hat. As she stared at it the sign creaked slightly in the wind.

Taking a deep breath she hurried down the lane which led out onto the quay, then she headed towards Lyndsey’s cottage. To her intense disappointment there were no lights on anywhere.

Taking hold of the knocker she let it fall twice, listening as the sound reverberated through the house. Total silence.

‘Shit!’ She bit her lip. ‘Where is she?’ This was her chance to do something really good. Something that would make her father sit up and notice her properly.

She frowned. Where would Lyndsey be on Halloween? Of course. How stupid. She wouldn’t be at home. She would be out with her coven doing witchy things. With a shiver of excitement, Alice turned and headed back towards the car. There were one or two places she could think of which might fit the bill and one of them was the deserted churchyard.

She parked a good half a mile away, pulling the car up onto the verge and almost into the hedge. It was very quiet up here away from the village. She shivered violently as she zipped up her jacket and slung the canvas bag strap over her shoulder. The wind was tearing her hair back from her face as she walked carefully down the middle of the road. Like an idiot she had forgotten to bring a torch and here in the black canyon between the high rustling hedges it was especially dark.

As she drew near to Liza’s she found her steps slowing. There were lights on in the house pouring out through uncurtained windows into the garden. She stopped by the garden gate, then she tiptoed closer, scrambled cautiously up onto the bank to peer carefully through the hedge. At first she could see nothing. She pressed more closely in amongst the scratchy twigs and leaves, pleased that the sound of the wind would hide any noises she was making, and she narrowed her eyes trying to see in at the window. Then, smiling with glee, she began to grope in her bag for the camcorder.

Emma faced Lyndsey across the kitchen table. ‘I don’t think I can do this.’

‘You have to. It’s the only way.’ Lyndsey had been home, taking Emma’s car, and returned an hour later with a large canvas bag. In it was her paraphernalia.

‘Oh, shit, no!’ Emma watched as Lyndsey brought out the knife, wand, bottle of oil, salt, incense. And then black silk robes. Emma touched them nervously. ‘Do you always have a spare?’

Lyndsey smiled. ‘No, second best. It doesn’t matter what one wears. It’s just better to be inconspicuous.’

‘Inconspicuous!’ Emma spluttered. ‘What about the pointed hats? The broom sticks? Everyone else will be wearing them tonight!’

‘Everyone else will be playing.’ Lyndsey’s face was grim. She reached across and grabbed Emma’s wrists. ‘You have to be strong. We have to do this. Now. I’m not waiting for midnight. The tension is growing every second. It must be nipped in the bud.’ She paused, surveying Emma’s face. ‘You can feel it, can’t you?’

Emma nodded. Her mouth was dry. She felt light-headed. ‘Can we have some coffee before we do anything else? I’m feeling so odd.’

‘No, you need to have your wits about you.’ Lyndsey dragged her to her feet. ‘We start with a cleansing bath, then the robe. Then we’ll go across to the churchyard.’ She gathered up the robes and headed for the door. ‘Come on, Emma!’

Emma was still hesitating. ‘I’m not sure – ’

Diving towards her, Lyndsey grabbed her wrist again. ‘Come on! I’m going to get you ready if I have to bath you myself.’ Her eyes were glittering with nervous energy as she pulled open the door and dragged Emma out into the hall and towards the stairs. At the top she glanced round. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

‘There.’ Emma nodded towards the door.

‘Right. You go first. Strip. Quick bath or shower with these.’ She thrust a small sachet of dried herbs into Emma’s hand. ‘Then the robe. Naked underneath. Brush some of the herbs through your hair or wash it to make sure there is no negativity clinging to you anywhere.’ She pointed to Emma’s watch. ‘No jewellery. Take that off. And the earrings. I wear special ritual jewellery but there’s no time to cleanse and consecrate your stuff. Hurry!’ Pushing Emma into the bathroom she pulled the door closed behind her.

Emma stood quite still. She was shaking. She dropped the silk robe onto the floor and moving to the window, she drew the curtains against the darkness outside. Almost on autopilot, she stooped and put the plug into the bath, then she turned on the taps. Untying the piece of raffia which held the sachet of herbs closed, she shook them out into the hot water and at once the air filled with a strange bitter-sweet tang. She watched the leaves and stalks swirling about for a moment, then still half in a daze she pulled off her jeans and sweater, bra and pants and, kicking them into the corner, gingerly stepped into the water. Sitting down, she slid along the bath until she was leaning right back, her legs drawn up so that she could duck under the water. Seconds later she had pulled the plug and was climbing out, flakes of leaf clinging to her wet skin as she reached for her towel. Having combed back her hair, she pulled on the black robe. The silk was soft and cold against her skin and for a moment she paused, growing used to the feel of it. She looked at the door, reluctant now to open it; afraid. It was several seconds before she plucked up courage to put her hand on the handle. She found Lyndsey waiting on the landing. Lyndsey surveyed her for a long cool moment, then she nodded. ‘Excellent. I’ll be two minutes.’

While Lyndsey bathed, Emma wandered into her bedroom. She glanced at the bed, desperately hoping one or other of the cats would be there. There was no sign. The accustomed double cat-shaped depression on the bedspread was missing. She wandered over to the window, glancing through the curtains across the lane. She half expected to see the churchyard full of eerie lights, but there was nothing. It was dark.

‘Ready?’ The soft voice behind her made her jump. Turning, she surveyed Lyndsey as they stood, face to face. Lyndsey too had wet hair; hers too contained a residue of clinging herbs. Her watch, too, had gone. Around Lyndsey’s neck was a silver pentacle on a fine chain and there were silver bangles on her wrists. She gave a tense smile. ‘All set?’

Emma nodded. ‘What if I can’t remember what to do?’

‘You will. If you’re in doubt about anything, follow me. I’ll initiate you first, outside in the garden, then we’ll cross the road and bind him down into the grave. It doesn’t matter whether he is actually buried there or not. That is the place I have chosen to imprison his soul forever.’

They ran down the stairs. Lyndsey grabbed her boots. ‘We can’t go barefoot. It would be crazy. Come on. Let’s go.’ She picked up her woven bag, so like the bag Sarah had treasured as her only memento of Liza. In the larger bag in the kitchen Lyndsey found her torch. Quietly they let themselves out into the dark.

Facing one another on the grass they stood quite still. Emma closed her eyes. She could feel herself shaking all over.

‘A woman should really be initiated by a man,’ Lyndsey said softly, ‘but this is an emergency. I don’t need to do the whole ceremony. And anyway, you are a witch already by birth and blood. This is just a formality.’

Emma didn’t deny it.

Above them a slim, cold, almost new, crescent moon sailed through a sea of silver clouds. Lyndsey dropped the bag on the grass and bent to rummage in it. When she stood up there was a red cord in her hand. Emma caught her breath. ‘I found a cord like that in the garden when I first moved in.’

Lyndsey spun round and looked at her. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘The cat dug it up.’ Emma was watching her closely.

Lyndsey laughed. ‘I might have known. What did you do with it?’

‘I burned it.’

‘So you knew what it was?’

‘No, I hadn’t a clue. I just sensed it was –’ She shrugged. ‘Unpleasant. What was it?’

‘A charm. A spell, if you like. To make you go away.’ Lyndsey laughed again. ‘I couldn’t understand why it hadn’t worked. But of course, you are a natural witch. You knew what to do, even if you didn’t know why. You, and your clever cats.’

Emma watched as Lyndsey laid out the contents of the bag: a small black-handled knife; a box containing three bottles; a carved stick, a small incense burner and a bell. She was breathing through her mouth, concentrating as she put down the box and set the other items on it. Then she lit the incense and four small night-lights in glass pots. ‘There,’ she murmured. ‘Ready.’ She turned to Emma. ‘Come close to me, here. Kick off your boots first – we’re just going to stand on the grass.’

Emma did as she was told, catching her breath as she stepped into the ice-cold dew.

‘I’m going to cast the circle.’ Lyndsey had the knife in her hand again. ‘We always work in a circle.’

Holding the knife high, she seemed to be offering it up towards the heavens, then she dropped her arm, pointing the tip of the blade at the grass about four feet away from them. Slowly she turned, her concentration intense, and before Emma’s eyes a strangely flickering light appeared in the darkness, streaming from the knife, depicting a circle on the grass around them.

‘Yes.’ Lyndsey completed the circle and laid the knife on the box which served as her altar. Oblivious to everything but the circle around them, she picked up each candle in turn and placed them at the four quarters. Then she raised her arms. ‘Hail, guardians of the east. Protect us and bless this circle. Hail guardians of the south, hail guardians of the west, hail guardians of the north …’

Emma held her breath.

Lyndsey stooped and picked up one of the small flasks. Pulling out the stopper, she passed the bottle three times through the smoke of the incense, then she turned back to Emma. ‘Take off your robe.’

Emma took a step back. ‘Do I have to?’

‘Do it, Emma.’ Emma wasn’t sure if the voice came from Lyndsey or from the woman inside her head. Slowly she raised her hands to the fastening at the neck of the robe, opened it, pulled it apart and let it slide from her shoulders. Lyndsey tipped the flask onto her fingers.

‘I hereby mark thee with the triple sign. With this you are received into the service of the goddess.’

She raised her forefinger towards Emma’s face. In the darkness, barely lit by the flickering lights, Emma saw oil glistening on her fingertip. Slowly and carefully Lyndsey drew a small sigil on her forehead. She remoistened her finger and drew a second figure between Emma’s breasts, drawing it slowly over the cold, marble-smooth skin, then a third time she repeated the action, this time trailing the oil into her pubic hair. Emma did not move.

‘Welcome, sister.’ Lyndsey gave a taut smile. She leaned forward and kissed Emma on the lips. ‘See, I have a necklace for you. Dedicated and blessed as my gift to you. You must always wear it in the circle and when you are using your gifts and powers.’ From the pile of items on her altar, she produced a leather thong. From it hung a small silver pentacle. She placed the thong around Emma’s neck. ‘There.’ She looked suddenly triumphant. ‘There is no time to celebrate now. That can come later. I’ll close down the circle and we’ll go to the churchyard.’

Emma stood still as Lyndsey dissolved the flickering blue light which had surrounded them, packed her things away into the bag and blew out the candles. She turned to Emma at last. ‘Aren’t you going to put on your robe?’

Emma jumped. ‘Of course! I’m freezing.’ She stooped and drew it up and over her shoulders, aware of the intense cold and dampness of the silk against her skin. She was still wondering whether the light of the circle had been real or merely her imagination.

‘And your boots,’ Lyndsey whispered. ‘There are brambles where we are going.’

Emma followed her obediently across the garden towards the gate. She felt sick. She should go back now, before it was too late. What she was about to do was mad and probably dangerous. She was already cold – under the thin damp silk her skin shrank from the wind – and she was increasingly afraid.

Ahead of her she saw the beam of Lyndsey’s torch on the path. Stop now. Lyndsey wouldn’t notice until it was too late. Turn. Run. Go back to the house. Go inside and slam the door and bolt it.

We’re waiting for you, Emma!

The voice in her head was right on cue.

It is time, Emma. You are one of us, now
.

‘Come on.’ Lyndsey had stopped. She turned, the torchlight waving wildly for a moment, the beam cutting across the garden, illuminating trees and hedges and wind-torn roses for a fraction of a second before it moved on, taking in Emma’s startled eyes, her white face, then it was gone, once more pointing at the ground near her feet.

Somehow they scrambled through the hedge, the brambles tearing at the black silk. Emma heard her robe rip and felt the sudden flow of blood hot on her skin. They climbed the wall, slippery in the dew and sharp under their hands, and then they were in the churchyard. Standing close together, they paused. Lyndsey had switched off the torch. She was breathing hard. Emma could feel the heat radiating off her skin.

‘Centre yourself. Get used to the dark,’ Lyndsey murmured. ‘Can you see anything?’

He’s not here!

The voice in Emma’s head was clear, slightly sarcastic.

Why are you here? This isn’t the place!

‘Lyn?’ Emma heard her own voice shaking. The wind was rising. ‘He’s not here. This isn’t his grave!’

Lyndsey spun round. ‘It’s in all the books, and the parish records. I’ve often wondered if it’s really his grave, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve felt him here.’ The torch flashed back on. ‘Look! There! You can see the rectangle on the grass.’

Emma shook her head. ‘Sarah doesn’t believe it.’ She put her hands to her face. ‘She keeps on. She won’t let me be. She’s in my head. On and on!’ She caught her breath with a sob. ‘Lyndsey, help me!’

Lyndsey turned off the torch. She dropped the bag on the ground and grabbed Emma by the arms. ‘Let her speak!’ she commanded. ‘Stop fighting her. See what she wants.’

Emma shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

‘You can!’ Lyndsey shook her. ‘Let go! Step back! Allow her in!’

Emma gave a sob. ‘I can’t. I don’t dare!’ She subsided to her knees with a groan. ‘Oh, Christ, let me be!’

‘Not Christ, Emma! You belong to the goddess now.’ Lyndsey knelt beside her. ‘Sarah, speak to me! I know you’re there. Tell me what to do!’ She seized Emma’s shoulders, turning her so that they were face to face. ‘Sarah? Can you hear me?’

Emma’s eyes opened wide. For a moment she didn’t move, then she turned and looked at Lyndsey with a frown. ‘I can hear you. Why are you shouting at me?’ It was Emma’s voice, but the tone had changed; the accent had softened into a local burr.

Lyndsey smiled triumphantly. ‘Tell me what to do, Sarah. How can I help you?’

Emma frowned. ‘We need to get our revenge, don’t we.’ She smiled. ‘On all of them. On Goodwife Phillips. She died in her bed. She shouldn’t have done that. She should have died by the pricker she used on so many defenceless old women.’ Emma was smiling now. ‘I cursed her, but it was too late. She slipped away from me, but now we’re strong enough to reach her. You and me and Emma, we can go after her.’ Emma laughed softly. ‘I curse you, Mary Phillips! I curse your descendants by the blood and those who inherited your mean, sick spirit. I curse you wherever you are. On earth, in hell, or nestling in some poor woman’s soul.’ There was a short pause. ‘That’s it. That’s where she is, isn’t it? She is hiding inside someone’s head. Judith!’ Another pause. ‘That’s where she is. She thinks we can’t see her there, but we can, can’t we, girls! May you die a thousand deaths in agony, by the pricking of the pin, Mary Phillips, just so you know how they felt! And Master Hopkins!’ Again Emma laughed, only this time there was no mistaking her for Emma. The face at which Lyndsey was staring had coarsened into hatred and spittle had collected at the corners of her mouth. Emma had gone. ‘Now, it’s your turn. Your body may lie in the cold earth, but your soul roams, hunting still for women to torment. And you too have found someone to hide you, haven’t you?’ She laughed again, loudly; coarsely. ‘Oh, yes. So easy, wasn’t it, to creep into another man’s head! But that makes no difference. We can still curse you, can’t we. We three, who have met here on hallowed ground on Hallow e’en. We curse you three times over, Matthew Hopkins.’ Her voice was rising steadily. ‘You will drown in the blood of your own lungs as the women drowned when you swam them, and you will feel the tightening of the noose around your neck and your soul will feel the flames of hell. And the creatures you killed, our familiars, our cats and dogs and small inoffensive pets will follow you and lick your blood and the bear our sisters sent to pursue you will tear the flesh from your bones!’